


drop in the ocean.

by m_rosenkov



Category: One Piece
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, M/M, Nakamaship, Other, Shorts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-04-17 06:43:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14183157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/m_rosenkov/pseuds/m_rosenkov
Summary: short One Piece ficlets and stories posted ontumblrfinally posted here. mostly lawlu/lulaw with some friendship fics thrown in. all ratings and warnings at the beginning of every chapter.link to chapter list





	1. (little loves) - (lawlu; modern AU)

**(little loves)**

 

 **characters:** law/luffy

 **tags:** romance, vignette, modern AU, fluff,

**rating: General**

 

* * *

 

 

They have a flat on the third storey, wedged between the broken lift and the crazy old lady that works at the Post Office (she has a cat whose name is Biscuits, all black and white and mangy with only one ear. On rainy days it likes to try and break in through their balcony, where Law had once kicked the flyscreen after another late-night phone call from his estranged uncle. He won’t fix it though. Luffy knows he secretly feeds Biscuits meat when he’s not looking).

There isn’t much to the place. Kitchen, bedroom, bathroom. A linen closet that doesn’t close properly and a window that Law insists on being open all the time, despite the chill air and noisy birds in the early hours of the morning. They still don’t have a bedframe. Luffy had this idea once to build one out of the pallets behind the local homewares store, but after about five splinters and an hour of complaining as he tried to fit it in their sedan, Law had quickly shut down that idea as ‘stupid’ and a ‘waste of time’ (Luffy still saves the pins on Pintrest though. He’d like to paint the pallets blue, like the sea, and maybe even out of the spare parts he could make a bedside table).

So, yeah, they sleep on the floor and their bath towels always tumble out of the closet—but, they have a dining table. It only has two chairs, with a lone succulent in its centre, and sits by the window that overlooks Sabaody Park. They don’t really have meals together anymore, with work and university taking up most of their time (Luffy hates this the most but Law just promises it won’t be forever. Sometimes he kisses Luffy when he says it, all soft and sweet and gentle). Franky likes the table though. Says it’s made from beautiful wood, and Sanji cooks great meals that they eat on it (and he’ll always make extra, leaving the leftovers in the oven to keep warm for when Law comes home in those late hours, tired and grumpy and silent).

Sometimes Robin will play card games with them and light these sticks that smell all smokey and nice, and Luffy will just trace the woodgrains on the table, imaging different worlds in the pictures he makes from the lines—ones with pirates and monsters and magics. If he’s really lucky, Law will even listen to his stories, leaning against the windowsill as he watches Luffy’s fingers dance on its surface, Robin humming as she deals another hand. The smoke rises to the white ceiling, and it seems to hang there all night, like a heavy cloud, long after Robin has left and the cards are back in the third draw of the kitchen (the one with the broken handle—their first fight, Luffy slamming it too hard when he thought he’d lost his favourite hat).

He likes the smoke cloud. It makes the place smell comfortable and warm. It soaks into Law’s hair, and when they go to bed, Luffy always breathes in deep, tries to take it all in. Sometimes he talks too much into his hair, recounting his day to every minute, but Law never seems to mind, even responds and asks questions (and, maybe— _maybe_ —he’ll even laugh).

Luffy holds him very close. The wind blows through that window and he complains it’s cold. The closet swings open and they hear their bathtowels fall out (again) and Law says (again), “I’ll fix that this weekend,” even though Luffy knows he won’t. Biscuits will meow through the window. There’s a  _bang_  from the neighbours upstairs, and then the sound of a siren screaming past, drowning out the drunken yells that drift up from Sabaody Park.

Luffy says, “I love you, Torao.”

And this is their little flat, on the third storey, next to the broken lift and the crazy old lady that works at the Post Office; with nothing much but a bed on the floor and a closet that won’t close properly—birds that are too loud in the morning, and a table with a succulent.

“I love you, too.”

There’s not much else to it, really.

 

* * *

 

**hey! tumblr is[here](http://mrosenkov.tumblr.com/) for any requests.**


	2. descent. - (doffy & cora; canon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! so I wanted to expand this, but my brain is mush and i unfortunately think that this will be as good as it gets. dark ficlet. Cora & Doffy, absolutely no romance or nakama-ship just regret and open endings. 650 words. kind of a stream of consciousness thing.

**descent.**

**characters:** doflamingo, rocinante

 **tags:** dark, vignette, character study, mentions of violence

**rating: Teen +**

 

* * *

 

**_all the king’s horses and all the king’s men, couldn’t put Joker together again._ **

Corazon comes back. He didn’t even know he could  _do_  that.

First time, he’s caught in the arch between the hallway and suit room. Law’s glaring at him from under his blood-soaked hair, and it’s charming, as always, laughter bubbling out of him because— _oh, Law._ Still too weak to follow his own heart—still too weak to walk his own path. There are a thousand words to be said, but a smile, a laugh—that says it all. And Law, in all his stoic grace and beauty, cracks under him; tries once more to break from the  _kairōseki_ , nails ripping on the stone Heart chair for grip—

—that’s when it happens.

You’d think it would be a knock on a door, maybe something thrown across the room. But it’s much more subtle—so intensely  _Cora_ —that all he can say is his brother is not there and long dead, and then  _he isn’t_.

He’s here.

Touching him.

It crawls across his skin, like a thousand ants, spiders scuttling from a nest. A featherlight touch that ghosts the hairs on his chest, that moves to his mouth, that lingers and drags and pulls and then he’s stumbling into the suit room and pulling out his gun—

Law flinches.

He thinks he laughs.

_Fucker._

He could kill Cora a hundred times, and then a hundred times more, and it still wouldn’t be enough. But he can’t physically, all ties to  _that_  long severed, save for one—and as he points his gun to the last string that holds him, that  _reminds_  him of everything beyond, Law frozen in place, he thinks,

 _Watch_.

 

(The bullet misses).

 

The second time, he’s dead, too.

Or, he thought he was.

Feels like the start of something, which is an irony—but, all beginnings begin at another beginnings end—something he is  _sure_  Cora told him—and he says as much, buried in the rubble of his ruined castle.

Cora says _, I never said that._

Dust settles around him like a thousand falling stars, and he sighs, weighted down by the world moving on. There are yells and there are cries—and then there are cheers and the trickle of blood from his mouth to his neck, and that’s when he realises he’s not dead (not yet), and  _shit_.

Everything hurts. It feels good. It feels bad.

It’s all so black and white and grey.

 _What do you want?_  he asks, taste of metal rich on his tongue.  _How long have you been looking for me for?_

 _It’s sad to see you this way,_  is the only answer he receives, brutally honest.

He thinks he sees Cora shrug. The hearts on his shirt are only lost memories and dreams now, and he wants to say,  _Go find Law and Baby and_ GO—

But sometimes words are useless. Sometimes they mean nothing. And it’s so  _funny,_  then, because he gets it, gets all those silences they shared years and years ago—how much was said when there was nothing but quiet.

How much he left unsaid and open.

A laugh.

A sigh.

_Doffy._

He does not reply.

It’s strange how they fall right back into old habits.

 

(The world thinks him broken, but he’s not, far from it, nowhere  _near_  it).

 

The third time is the last time.

These things never last long, see. It’s always been some sort of power struggle between them, and it’s a bitter victory on his part, this time, simply because he is  _alive._

Corazon is just a shimmer in his periphery as he leaves the destroyed marine base, steps taken in twos. There’s not a lot to stop and ponder, not a lot to plan, just a lot to  _do_ , but for the briefest, perfect second, he hears it:

 _Doffy_.

And he swears, all he has ever wanted to do was answer:  _Cora._

And he would, he really would. But when he opens his mouth to answer, there’s no sound, just the crashing of ocean waves on the dock, loud and clear between them.

And then, Cora is gone.

 

 

( _silence_ ).


	3. The Bookshop is Called Robinson's - (lawlu; modern au)

**The Bookshop is Called Robinson’s.**

**characters:** Law/Luffy

 **tags:** romance, fluff, modern au, law's a grump

 **rating:** Gen

 

* * *

 

 

Law works in the centre of town, at that little bookshop near the university city hub (you know, the one that everyone calls Robbo’s, with all the vines around the window and the aisle just for books on government conspiracies?). He hates the place—says it’s a waste of his time, but you’ll always find him there every second afternoon, ringing up the till and browsing the selection of tomes for his own reading. He knows some of the customers by name, too (Betsy comes every Wednesday after her physio appointment, looking for new knitting patterns, and there’s a kid name Aiden who must have every travel book the small shop has ever stocked).

Luffy thinks that’s funny. Says, “Sell me a book”, every time he comes in (which is way too often if you ask Law) after his Social Science classes during the week. (Law always just tells him to choose his own goddamn book).

If it’s really quiet, Luffy will sit on the register counter and flick through the 50c postcards they sell at the till, recounting his day to the very second, Law just listening with his arms crossed as he watches the clock tick closer to closing time. Sometimes he’ll even let Luffy flick their ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’ as Law counts the register’s earnings, pocketing his own wage. Luffy loops his thumbs in his backpack straps, still nattering on about nothing and everything.

“I’ll by you a drink, Strawhat,” he drawls one winter afternoon, grabbing his heavy overcoat from behind the counter.

Luffy grins. “Zoro and the others are at Crimin’!”

“Fine. Let’s go there.”

Law shoves his hands deep into his pockets, and Luffy leads the way, a five minute walk to the pub (and even walks Luffy the half-hour stroll home late that night). They do it again the next week, and the week after, and then it’s the uni holidays, and Luffy finds himself at Robbo’s a lot, Law jokingly saying he’ll have to pay him a wage if he doesn’t piss off (also snapping at him to take off his hat inside, but that’s beside the point).

He still hasn’t bought a book, either, much to Law’s annoyance (“Sell me one!” “Just  _pick_  one, Strawhat!”).

One Saturday, at the end of the holidays, it’s raining, and Luffy strolls in, bell above the door  _ring, ring, ring_ ing and dripping wet, backpack under his raincoat.

“I’m going to study at the uni!” he says, like Law could care, which he  _doesn’t_ , barely even looking up from the book in his hand. Luffy pouts. “Torao.”

“Fine,” Law answers then. Waves his hand in the general direction of the non-fiction section, eyes not moving from the page. “Take whatever you need.”

Luffy’s pout intensifies. “What are you reading?”

“Book.” Then, a sigh. “It’s a stupid book,” and Law snaps it closed with a roll of his eyes.

“Let me see.”

He holds it up, and Luffy walks over, taking the book from his hands. It’s small, and colourful, a picture of a strange-looking man on the front cover with an idiot grin.

Luffy asks, “Is this a picture book, Torao?” and Law snatches it out of his hands and glares.

“ _No._ ” A hesitation. “There are pictures inside though. It’s a little weird.”

No one’s in the bookshop, the streets outside empty from the intense downpour. Luffy shrugs off his coat, and drops his backpack, lifting himself up on the counter and kicking his legs out. Law opens the novel, stopping at the first page and clearing his throat:

“ _A story over four hundred years ago, in a certain country in the Northern Seas, there was a man named Monblanc Noland—”_

Luffy wrinkles his nose. “That’s a stupid name.”

“It’s a  _story_ ,” Law snaps, irritated. He leans forward over the counter, shoulder brushing Luffy’s arm, and holds the book out before them. “Look at the pictures.”

“Oh, he’s on a ship!”

Law smirks. Continues, “ _Noland the Explorer’s stories were always grand adventures that sounded like lies. But the people of the village could never tell if they were true or not…”_

Luffy kicks out his legs. Leans into Law. He continues to read the tale, showing Luffy all the pictures, and yeah, it  _is_  a little weird, but Luffy likes it—likes even more the rain that patters against the window, the soft hum of Law’s voice, the spicy smell of his cologne.

There’s a drawing of Noland on an island in the clouds, and that’s pretty cool.

Law stops at some point though, and sighs, looking out the window with a little bit of longing. “No one’s here, let’s just go,” he grumbles.

“Drink?” Luffy asks. “Oooh, I’m hungry too, can we get some food?”

“Whatever.”

Yeah. Robbo’s bookshop in town’s not much, but as Luffy flips the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’, Law mumbling something about making no money, rain  _tap, tap, tap_ ping on those rattly old windows, Luffy says, “I’m gonna be back again tomorrow, Torao, and you need to finish reading me that book!”

Law shrugs on his overcoat. “I don’t work tomorrow, Strawhat.”

“Oh.” Luffy pouts.

“Well.” Law picks up the book, and pockets it, throwing Luffy a smirk (one that makes him feel surprisingly warm, weirdly tingly; one that has him smiling back). He dumps a five dollar note on the counter. “I can read it to you at my house.”

And it’s not a question, not a request, just a fact.

Luffy says, “I thought I was supposed to buy the book from  _you_ , Torao.”

“Yeah, yeah, just get me a drink tongiht.”

And as Luffy leans into Law on their way out, side-by-side, the bell at the door  _ring, ring, ring_ ing, he looks up to the grey sky above, and laughs.

“Okay, Torao!”

It’s no island in the clouds, but Robbo’s is pretty perfect for them.

* * *

 

- **italicised parts taken from the OP wiki on Montblanc the Liar.**


	4. first mate. (kid, law, luffy; friendship)

_fic request from an[anon on tumblr](http://mrosenkov.tumblr.com/post/172551510399/im-too-embarrassed-to-ask-this-not-anon-s-and-i) for more Law + friendship. written on my phone and completely unedited, so apologies in advance._

 

**(first mate).**

**characters:** kid & killer, law & penguin (& shachi, & bepo), luffy & zoro & sanji

 **tags:** nakama-ship, fluffy friendship, first mate character studies

**rating:** **General**

 

* * *

 

 

**kid & killer.**

It’s Saturday night, their second night on the Grand Line, and the whole crew is fast asleep after a long day of battling dangerous seas and stormy weather. He watches the deceptive calm from his post in the crow’s nest, muscles tight and sore, eyes dry and itchy. Recounts their day to the very second, agonising on what they could do better, how to handle the next cyclone, remembering to fix the tear in their upper sail—there’s a leak somewhere, he remembers that, too, but where, _where_ —

Killer runs a hand through his hair and yawns. “Hull.” _That’s right_. “Leak in the hull, don’t forget that.”

“Nah, fixed it.”

“Oh.”

It’s not like Killer is in love.

Nothing like that.

And it’s not like Killer is searching for love.

Nothing that simple.

He would call it purpose, if it even had a name; which he is sure it doesn’t—sure it never could.

All he knows is that his heart beats a funny beat, one that’s all _pitter-patter_ , one that’s all, _thudthudthud thud_ , full of adrenaline and anticipation. All he knows is that he _knows_. That he—

“Right.” He stretches as Kid steps up by his side, covered in dust and grime with that feral smile. He reeks of metal and sweat, heat radiating off his bare skin despite the wintery breeze. “Fix the tear in the sail?”

Kid snorts. “Nup. Do I pay you to do nothing?”

“You don’t pay me at _all_.”

He laughs at that.

Beneath them, the boat rolls with every wave, the gentle slap on oak the only sound for miles. Killer yawns again, looking beyond the horizon, salt and metal and rope and sweat flooding each breath he takes, every exhale dizzying his chest with a blissful lightness.

You see, Killer belongs here, on this sea, by his side. There is no future for him anywhere, but the tug of determination draws him to Kid; and as the wind picks up, the chill too bitter to ignore, he moves closer to his captain, their shoulders brushing lightly.

“Man, I’m so—” Kid _shines_ as he stares across the water, eyes following the stars that lead them forward, “—I’m so _fucking_ excited.”

There are so many things Killer could say in that moment. _I’m glad I’m here; I’ll follow you to the ends of nowhere; Captain_. But he likes to fill in the gaps of Kid’s person—knows him well enough to do so—and says only what he needs to, what Kid wants to hear:

“Me too.”

And there is a promise in that agreement, firm as a sailor’s hitch between them, and he lets his breath go with the next wave, Kid’s barking laughter his only answer.

It’s not the start of something. It’s nowhere near the end. As long as he’s here, Killer doesn’t care what, or where, it is, really.

 

**law & penguin.**

Sabaody. That’s when it’s clear. Crystal clarity, Ikkaku would say, in that annoying voice of hers (the real haughty one, you know how it goes).

They’ve only docked for an hour, walking around. Walking, walking, a lot of walking. Shachi convinced Law to stop at one of the little stalls that sells fried fish sticks, bought a bunch; then, of course, Bepo wanted to stop at a dozen more—so yeah, what should take twenty minutes takes an hour, and he’s feeling pretty pissed off, all hot in this dumb jumpsuit, Shachi just blah, blah, blah in his right ear.

They’re passing the shitty pub when Law puts one hand out.

This is how it goes for them, right: Law moves, barely a centimetre, and they _all_ stop. It’s how it’s always been. How it always will be. He doesn’t have to say anything (never does), just one finger, one hand, a small shift in the way he holds his nodachi, and they’re all there, every part of them, every thing they can offer.

“Wait.”

They do.

He leaves them for about a minute—long enough for Bepo to start his nervous dance-thing, peaking around the corner to see what Law is doing. Shachi says something like, “Just wait!” and Bepo apologises. Shachi complains about him apologising. He says sorry again—

And then Law’s back, suddenly, out-of-nowhere.

“Penguin. Shachi.” Law hands him a scrap of paper with a number on it. Drawls, voice oddly quiet, “I want you to go around and rip down any wanted posters of mine you see. Meet me here in an hour. Bepo, come with me.”

Bepo straightens like he’s been electrocuted. “Aye, aye, captain!”

 

They find about a hundred wanted posters in total. He’s got them in his hand, and it’s on their way to the meeting place, Shachi still talking non-stop, that he realises it.

It is—

Like a blinding light.

A submarine. A lower bounty. The silence. Calmness. A devil fruit almost no one knows of.

There’s havoc all around them, chaos from all the other supernova’s in one place, but as they walk up to the rendezvous (a slave auction, _huh_ ), Law leaning against the wall, Celestial Dragon’s breezing by like they can’t even _see_ him—

Well.

“You good?” Law asks, straightening as they walk up. He jerks his thumb to the door on his right. “Thought we could have some fun.”

A wry smirk plays the corners of his mouth, one Penguin remembers from all those years ago, one he cannot help but return. Reminds him of long cold winters, endless nights under the pressing ocean—reminds him of fires on freezing shores, four bodies huddled together for warmth, a boy—a _kid_ —who will lead them to the end of the world.

 “Aye, captain.”

Law’s eyes shine.

 

They’ll write him down in history books, you know.

 

**luffy & zoro (& sanji).**

He’s a dumbass.

 _But_.

Well. There are things Luffy knows. Things Zoro doesn’t.

So, it goes a little like this:

Their eyes make contact across the disorder of the battlefield, and Luffy isn’t there, and then he is there, so abruptly, so suddenly, that Zoro actually stumbles a bit.

“Oi, oi—”

Luffy grabs his arm. “Let’s go.”

“Like.” There’s this yelling behind him from a marine, clang of metal, Shit Cook cursing. Zoro licks his lips and it tastes like blood, Luffy’s eyes burning into him. “Like, run?”

“Yes.” One. Two. A frown. “No.”

Whatever.

It’s not like—like Zoro is _averse_ to running away. Running away is a choice. Not one that he would personally make. But still a choice.

Luffy tugs his arm.

Right.

“Oi!” Zoro turns, his free arm swinging out and blocking a blow from a ballsy marine, yelling, “Shit Cook! Let’s go!”

Sanji spins around, looking like literal fire he’s that mad. “What—”

He sees Luffy and stops.

See, there are things Luffy knows. Things Sanji doesn’t.

Shit Cook’s by their side in an instant.

“Let’s go,” Luffy says again.

And they do.

 

So, it goes a little like this:

Nami asks, voice shrill, “Luffy! What are you doing?”

And Franky just listens, turning the ship away from the marines, evading them with proficient skill, Luffy launching to his spot on the figurehead.

Sanji has his cigarette packet in his hand, taps a stick out and lights it. Blows smoke into the air with a sigh.

His eyes linger on Zoro’s for a moment too long.

“Don’t question it,” he mutters.

“Wasn’t gonna,” Shit Cook snaps back.

Behind them, the ten marine ships in pursuit explode.

Just. Explode.

Unbelievably bright. Inexplicably loud.

Luffy’s laughter breaks through the chaos, full and whole and free.

 

Yeah, he’s a dumbass.

 _But_.


	5. the island! (lawlu; fic scrap, canon)

**the island!**

 

**\- absolute fluff and i am sorry**

**characters:** law/luffy

 **tags:** fic scrap, fluffy, canon universe, experiment with luffy's personality pretty much

**rating: General**

 

* * *

 

 

Then Law says:

“ _Mugiwara_ -ya, you’re gripping very tight.”

Oh.

He’s right. Luffy can almost feel Law’s bones bending in his hold, and he begrudgingly let’s go, flexing his fingers and muttering a surly ‘sorry’.

Law doesn’t respond, rotating his wrists and not taking that sharp gaze away. It feels like it’s almost burning through Luffy’s brain, and he hums and frowns and pouts and sighs, trying to distract himself from the acute pain that’s building in his heart.

“Sorry,” he says again, with more effort, trying to sound a little more apologetic, trying to fill this weird, uncomfortable silence.

Law asks, “Are you okay?”

No.

His chest aches and his heart is thudding this funny beat, one that reminds him of gear second, where it’s all  _thudthud thud thudthudthuud_. It’s too fast and too much and his stomach flops and flutters, swaying all yucky and gross, like he’s about to be sick.

Maybe he is sick.

And he tries to answer Law but all he can do is kinda gasp (what), and he’s sure he didn’t get bit by some weird bug because he’s  _very_  aware of bugs and there have been none around to catch or bite—

“ _Mugiwara_ -ya.”

Ah.

Luffy tries to focus on his breathing like Ace always told him, but his brain doesn’t slow down, now telling him—no screaming—to touch Law’s face.

So he does just that, hands reaching up and cupping his rival captain’s jaw.

It’s so  _nice._  The sun is playing this dancing game in Law’s eyes that reminds Luffy of the ocean at dusk, all orange and gold, and he pulls him down and close so their noses just brush, Law’s breath warm and minty on Luffy’s skin. His beards scratchy under his palm, which is kind of fascinating, to be honest, because Luffy has never been able to grow a beard, and Sanji and Usopp would never let him this close.

In fact, he realises, it’s weird Law’s even letting him this close.

As if on cue, the jaw he holds tenses dangerously.

“ _Mugiwara_ -ya,” Law grinds out.

No. Luffy’s not ready to let go just yet, and Law doesn’t really make to move away despite his obvious discomfort.

Humming softly, Luffy frowns and pouts, moving his fingers across to Law’s nose. It’s all crooked and hard, many times broken, and it reminds him of Ace. An odd feeling holds him there, one that has no word, one he can’t describe. Luffy hasn’t—can’t—break any bones, but here Law is, with his broken nose and this murderous look in his gaze, the sun still shining in that gold.

It’s so  _nice._

It’s so  _whole_.

“ _Mugi—_ ”

He hums louder, drowning out the certain threat. He bites down on his bottom lip in concentration, focusing everything on Law. Luffy brushes over open eyes, long lashes tickling his fingertips, and wow, he really likes this. A lot. Law’s skin is responsive, warming under his touch with a pink glow, and he keeps moving, desperate—more, more, more.

He feathers the corners of Law’s lips, which part at his touch, and then there’s this sound Law makes—like a sigh? A word?

Luffy can’t ponder it for long, though, Law snatching his wrists with all the speed of a snake strike.

“What. Are. You. Doing.”

Law’s voice is weird, whispers and sighs and rumbles, and Luffy’s stomach flips in response.

Then he remembers: “Oh. I’m sick.”

“Really,” comes the deadpan reply.

He’s not quite sure how to respond to that. Why would he lie about being sick? Sure, Luffy’s never been sick before, but he’s positive this is what is feels like—this lightheaded, flippy stomach, heart jumping thing that is happening to him right now. And his doctor isn’t here, and Law  _is_  a doctor, so:

“Fix me.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Torao,” Luffy moans, going limp in his grip and just kinda… flopping there. “But my chest hurts. My stomach feels yuck.”

He’s melting like rubber in the heat, and Law holds him for a beat, then two, before completely releasing his grip and dropping Luffy with a frustrated sigh. He doesn’t put his hands out quick enough, landing face first and inhaling a good mouthful of gritty silt.

 _Gross_.

Luffy spits out as much as he can, coughing dramatically as he slowly rises to rest on his knees. He can’t remember a worse day, to be quite fair. He’s sick, his mouth is a disgusting muddy mess, Law’s mad, it’s so  _boring_ , there is literally  _nothing_  to eat or do and—

A firm hand presses against his forehead, cool and calming, and Luffy stops coughing enough to look up. Law’s crouched before him, still looking mildly pissed off, but the faintest hint of a smile touches his lips at the eye contact.

“You’re a irksome man,  _Mugiwara-_ ya,” he drawls, voice much too soft and nice.

“Shihihihi.” Law’s so good, it fills him whole, and Luffy can’t help but smile. “I always feel better with you around!”

And it’s true. Even though his tummy still flutters, it’s a nice feeling; like that sensation when you jump off a cliff and your stomach disappears somewhere above your body; or when Sanji makes something new and delicious from a fish Luffy had caught all by himself.

Law’s is staring at him, hand still cool on his forehead. He looks… odd. Happy, but also sad. Distracted and quiet. Luffy wants to break the silence, but he finds he kind of likes it, this blissful calm settling around him as he blinks back at Law, the hand on his forehead not leaving.

 

* * *

Law finds him again, because of course he does. Law always finds him. He found him at Sabaody, then at the Marineford War, and at Punk Hazard. He literally soared towards him through the sky at Dressrosa, and Luffy is pretty sure he was unconscious then.

It was something Nami had always said to him: “ _You attract people Luffy, so you better be careful or — ”_

And at that point Luffy usually stopped listening because ‘watching out’ and ‘being careful’ are  _boring_  and  _why_  would he do that anyway.

So, Law finds him on the northern beach, and Luffy is starting to feel better, shoveling his freshly caught and rashly cooked perch in his mouth. Law takes seat next to him, propping his arm on a bent leg and straightening the other, when Luffy sees it.

“Fawts that?” he asks between mouthfuls.

“Preserved coral. I thought you’d like it.”

Luffy nearly spits out his food. He’s sick again, he can feel his stomach clenching and face warming from a fever and this is so  _unfair_ because all he wants to do is thank Law for his present but he is sure if he opens his mouth he will just throw up and  _why —_


	6. Espressily for You (lawlu; coffee shop au)

**Espressily for You**

**characters:** law/luffy

**tags:** fluff so much fluff, coffee shop au, wrote this so tired and on my phone so. sorry about the puns ;) 

**rating: gen**

* * *

 

There’s a café at the university, inside the library, with a chalkboard at the door that has a new joke on it every day. None of them are funny. A lot of the time, they just revolve around coffee, because the imagination pool at Sabaody University is wonderfully shallow. Other times (and these are the ones Law hates the _most_ ), they are puns. And the worst thing about puns is—well.

Puns are just never funny.

Like today for example:

“It’s a Brew-tiful day!”

Even though it’s pissing down with rain. And then there’s this little drawing next to it, which Law thinks is a coffee cup or something; but really, the whole thing is just drawn so badly, you could call it anything and he would believe you. Hell. Even Nami would believe you. And that woman’s a bigger skeptic than himself (which is a considerable feat, by the way).

So, yeah, Law stares at that for way to long, feeling slightly angry, feeling pretty over-it, feeling dead to the world because it’s 6am and raining and the library is _exceptionally_ cold, when the barista sees him standing at the door and yells:

“Torao!”

Too loud. Way too loud.

Law twitches. “Luffy-ya. It’s six am.”

“Yeah!” Luffy says, launching over the counter with inhuman speed. “I made you a coffee! And I have fruit. And—”

He shoves the takeaway coffee cup under Law’s nose, steaming black brew sloshing out the sides, smelling temptingly bitter. Which, he knows is a farce. Because _tempting_ and Luffy’s coffee, are not words that are usually found in the same sentence. In fact, if Law had to describe Luffy’s coffee (which you don’t want him to, he’s a coffee snob and can rant for days about beans and the grind, water temperature, brewing time, blah, blah, blah), it would be something along the lines of _awful_ and _burnt_ and—

“Thanks.”

Law takes the cup, takes a sip, and then sits: in his usual spot in the corner, next to the fiddle leaf pot plant and the wooden crates of beans. And Luffy sits opposite him, nattering on about something (about the rain and his shift, and what is Law doing today? Tutoring the other med students, because if he is, Luffy wants him to bring over Chopper so they can have a milkshake date. Sanji makes the best milkshakes though, and he clocks on at ten, so Law just has to make sure it’s after then, okay?).

And Law tries not to cringe as he takes another sip of his burnt, awful, sour beverage. He really does try.

Because the thing _is_ —

(Law loves coffee. He has a machine at home, and all different kinds of filters and brewing utensils and everything—)

The thing _is_ —

“Torao, will you come have coffee later when we get milkshakes? I’m getting good at the machine, Sanji’s been teaching me every day!”

“I can tell. It’s good.”

_The thing is:_

Law doesn’t go for the coffee.

“I have a pun for your board tomorrow, Luffy-ya.”

“Yeah? What is it?”

“Where have you _bean_ all my life?”

“Shishishi! Ahh, Traffy, that’s a good one! Sanji will love that. I’ll draw a bean for it, too!”

 

_(On his way to his first lecture, Law rounds the corner and pours the rest of his drink into the garden, just outside the library. He’ll be back later, though. He always comes back)._


	7. The Hamlet (kidlaw; modern au)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i had another oneshot collection, but i orphaned it because i low-key hate a lot of what i write (...yeah). anyway, i liked this little fic scrap though so here! if you want to check out more kidlaw dumps the collection is still around under tales of vagrancy or m_rosenkov (orphan_account). (ps. thank you to Harmonica_Smile who left a lovely review on this piece in the other collection! i was sad to see it go)

**The Hamlet**

 

 **characters:** kidlaw, sanji cameo 

 **tags:** college au fic scrap, au building, some swearing, cute nerds finding their feet, anarchist law

**rating: Gen**

 

* * *

 

They’re so young here, right—a cocky youthfulness that’s full of brash arrogance and bold claims. Just on the edge of twenty, living in dormitories and drinking every weekend. Give them enough time, and they’ll solve the world’s problems—just like that. Like it’s that  _easy_.

Law works at the little coffee van in The Hamlet. It’s a small paved carpark, wedged between apartment blocks and a government office building—law courts, if he remembers correctly, suits loitering around outside in their designer shoes and with their leather briefcases, talking on the phone too loud about nothing important. There are rumours of the council closing it down, some of food vans already packing it and leaving before they’re kicked out. Art students from the university held a protest there last Saturday—the slogans were something like “Freedom over Bureaucracy”, like  _that_  would convince the council to keep open a dirty little ex-carpark with only a coffee van and a pop-up bar. He heard it went badly. Heat got arrested, and Bonney was  _furious._

“They’re trying to silence our voices.”

Right.

So, Kid didn’t expect much when he rocked up, on his way to his first and last class of the day. But he smelt the coffee from around the corner—couldn’t pass up the opportunity for a pick-me-up before his presentation. He had his sculpture on a pair of rollers Killer had lent him, the thing too big for his shitty car—not that it’s registered to drive anyway, but that’s another story—and he was thirty minutes ahead of schedule, which was a pleasant change.

He’s pulling out his wallet from his jeans pocket, when the barista at the register leans forward, looking across the paved courtyard with a raised brow. He’s really familiar. All angular features, tired eyes, this dark broodiness that is—well, fucking hot. Dressed in an oversized hoodie and tight jeans, he reeks of coffee and spices, hair just kinda flopping in his grey eyes.

“Oi, what’s that?”

Kid turns away, following the jerk of his thumb. “Oh. Art project. And just a cap, thanks.”

The barista grunts, pulling back and tapping lazily on the iPad before him. “What beans?”

“I—” Kid frowns. “What?”

The guy rolls his eyes, and that’s when Kid notices the tatts on his hand, creeping up into his sleeve—swirling lines and circles. “Ethiopian, Colombian, Indo—”

“Trafalgar?”

The bored façade cracks. There’s a frown of annoyance—then an eyebrow raise of recognition. A smirk. “Eustass Kid.”

He doesn’t say anything more than that, which is, well… not surprising. Kid remembers running into Trafalgar Law at one of Ace’s infamous parties a year ago, and he hadn’t said much then, either. He was fucking cool, though. Med student, already owned his own house, designed his own clothes—tasted like spice and wood. Kid felt rather stupid next to him, a poor art student who was already a week behind in his rent after loosing a bet to Killer on who could down a whole keg in a minute (turns out,  _not_  Heat). The only thing Kid really had going for him was Law’s number in his phone—a phone which he had lost, at that party, not an hour after Law had left.

Ha, ha.

“Haven’t see you in a while. You still studying?”

Law taps away at the screen, drawling, “Yeah. Unfortunately. Working and studying. Oi, the Ethiopian beans are really good, you okay with that?”

“Whatever.”

“Better black, though.” Law moves to the coffee machine, warming it up with one hand and shoving the other into the pocket of his hoodie. It’s a gaudy yellow with black sleeves and lettering. Quirky. “Your art’s looking good.”

Kid glances back towards his sculpture. Bits of metal jutting out everywhere—he’d tried to capture ‘nature’ in something so obviously manmade. The steel had a lot of rust over it now, and yeah, he was pretty proud of this one, even if he really had no idea what he was trying to convey through it.

“Thanks.”

“You ever go to the Flea Markets?”

“What’s that?”

The coffee machine starts screaming, and Law turns away briefly, doing his thing, the steam blowing up, smell of ground beans filling the space. He works silently for a couple of seconds, then says, “It’s a local market down at the showground near Shakky’s Rip-Off. People sell shit they’ve made. A lot of the public servants go down there to furnish their apartments—” he says this with a roll of his eyes, and Kid snorts, “—Your stuff would sell really well there, I reckon.”

Law walks back over, hands him the filled coffee cup with a smirk.

Kid says, “Thanks.” Then, “I wanted a cap.”

“It’s better black.”

He frowns.

Law waves a languid hand, pulling out his phone from his pocket and turning away. He drawls, “Guess I’ll see you this Saturday, Eustass- _ya_?”

***

Shakky’s Rip-Off is notorious for—well, ripping people off. Government workers love the place; she says the high pricing drives them in, even if the beer is just beer—and shit beer, at that. Kid’s not so sure it’s the price that pulls them in, so much as it is that Shakky’s pretty fit, and her husband Rayleigh being some big name in the senate.

Regardless, Kid takes her advice, trying out the pricing strategy. Some scrap bit of metal with a pattern cut into it? 500 beli. Art sculptures from previous classes that were just taking up cupboard space? 1000.

Thirty minutes in, and he has sold everything.

“Oh, it’s just  _beautiful_ ,” one woman coos, after buying his last bit of rubbish. “You are a talent. Young entrepreneurs like you drive our beautiful city.”

It takes a lot of self-control on his behalf to not laugh in her face.

The markets are still going strong, so he packs up his little store—which is actually just Killer’s van with the doors open, and a chalkboard sign reading ‘Kid’s Piracy’—and wanders around. There are small pop up streetlamps lining the cobblestone paths, smells of Eastern cuisine floating through the air. A lot of stalls look like ships, all with quirky names and weird peddlers. Kid takes his time, soaking it all in, gathering inspiration, before he sees it—a little yellow car with two people leaning on the passenger door, clothes spilling from the boot and strong smell of tobacco filling the atmosphere around them.

“Oi, Trafalgar.”

Law looks up, smirk already in place. “You came.”

Kid really likes the way his voice sounds when he says that, this hopeful lilt masked with fake indifference. He shrugs in return, but grins. “Wanna get a drink? Turns out metal sells.”

Law huffs a laugh. “Uh-huh.”

By his side, a blonde guy lights up another cigarette, looking weirdly out-of-place in a black suit next to Law’s t-shirt and jeans. He mutters, “I’ll watch the car.”

Law shoves his hands into his pockets and idles up to Kid with a yawn. “I know a good place.”

The place is a little stall, near the end of the markets. It’s surrounded by wooden tables and chairs, and sells booze—the good kind, not the Shakky kind. Kid buys two pints, and they take place on a table near the end, Law sitting next to him. He taps his fingers rhythmically on the wood, drawling strange questions, revealing little to nothing, aloof and untouchable. He has a feral sort of smile, and Kid finds himself staring at it, staring at him, curious and fascinated.

“Are they really closing The Hamlet?”

Law snorts. “Probably.” He takes a long sip of his beer, then pauses. “You know, they want to build apartments there. I heard rumours that one of the government buildings from the South is getting moved just a block away from Hamlet. Replacing art with bureaucracy, where’s the freedom in that?”

Kid shrugs.

“It just—” Law leans forward, hands between his knees, eyes flashing in the darkness, “—pisses me off, you know? They tell us how to live our lives. Those fucking suits that buy my coffee make three times as much as me.” He laughs bitterly. “I just want to be a doctor who’ll do some good, but I have to live ten years on a pathetic wage selling coffee to people who don’t even know where Ethiopia is on a map.” Law looks at him. “What about you?”

Kid downs the last of his drink. “What about me?”

“Well.” He has this way of staring, like he’s seeing right through Kid. “You’re an art student. Did you go to the protests about the Hamlet?”

“Nah. Waste of time.” He swings the empty beer bottle between two fingers, dragging his gaze away from Law. He smells so  _good_  though. Like… like coffee and smoke and wood and clean laundry. “Better ways to get their attention.”

“Like what?”

Kid shrugs again. “Graffiti. Heh. Vandalism. Shit like that, people can’t forget.” He pauses for a beat, then says, “The Hamlet is good for art, but it’s not changing the city. The suits think they’re right, you know? They don’t give a fuck about protests on weekends—they’re not even  _there_  on weekends. They’ll take all our spaces if there’s money to be made.”

Law’s silent for a long time, turning away, watching as the remaining stalls start to pack down their vans and tents. Eventually, “Right.” Then, a soft chuckle, eyes dancing mischievously as they flick back to Kid. “That’s what I like about people like you. You keep it real.”

Kid’s breath catches in his throat.

Beginnings are so funny, you know. There is caution, dancing around edges, figuring out boundaries. Advancing and retreating, never at the same time, never just  _getting_ it. But there is none of that here, and Kid sees Law on his level, understands what they both mean, drawn to something more, something so infinitely  _free_.

There is an impeccable second where they just hold one another’s gaze, the air sparking around them; an endlessness to the moment, one he could almost pluck from the air and hold.

Then Law’s phone rings.

“Damn.” He pulls it out. “I forgot about Sanji.”

“The guy at the car?”

“Yeah, he’s a friend of my roommate.”

He stares at the phone for a long time, then looks to Kid, unspoken question hanging between them.

Kid just says, “My band’s playing at Shakky’s next weekend, if you wanna…?” like he isn’t invested, doesn’t care, like it’s not a big deal—

“I’ll be there, Eustass-ya.”

_It’s not a big deal._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pss. i'm struggling with my writing lately (hence the orphan-ing), so any prompts, please send them my way! relaxed with the pairing and characters - definitely looking to write more nakamaship fics though. if you have any ideas, send me an ask on tumblr ([here](http://mrosenkov.tumblr.com/))


	8. black tea (lawlu; modern au + canonverse)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha i am running out of chapter names (anyway, how great is black tea?) (ps. there is no tea in these two fics, i am full of false promises)

**that time he saved your life**

**(inspired by[this amazing artwork](http://rinfumochi.tumblr.com/post/174407057264/the-time-when-you-saved-him-vs-the-time-when) by  _rinfumochi_ )**

 

**characters:** law/luffy

**tags:** like, so much angst holy hell, blood t/w, second person, canon, dressrosa

**rating: teen**

 

* * *

 

 

It’s not a debt.

That’s what you keep telling yourself—more to convince and calm your own mind than anyone else’s. You know Mugiwara does not understand, doesn’t even  _want_ to (wouldn’t even care, really, but you deny that, you do; will deny it to no one but yourself, in the dead of night when the thoughts are too much, when the spirits won’t  _leave_ ).

Acquiesce is what you expect. What you get is far different,  _worse:_

Acceptance is not something you have felt in years. Acceptance is… You don’t think on it. You’ve fallen far (so, so far, and you think on this, you do, too frequently, too angrily).

You’ll still lord it over him sometimes, though. See, that’s just how you are (and we are so  _sorry_  about that; about your bitterness, about your egotistic heart). You never said you were a good person, regardless of what  _he_  wants to believe. He is a fool of a captain and a means to a goal (and you are a not a gambling man, no; and this is not a debt, true. However).

_However._

You expect some consideration. You expect some protest (you are a  _fool)_. You can’t remember why you saved him in the first place, can’t remember the drive or the haphazard beating of your panicked heart—but, perhaps, you mention it that one time too many. Perhaps you are more spiteful than you think, because one time, one sleepless night, he thanks you.

“Thanks for saving me, Torao.”—like your bastardised name fills in the empty gaps of your person (even though you learned long ago, on an island of ice, snow and blood, that names mean nothing, that names are just hollow promises of what you could be, of what you are not, what you will  _never_  be).

It’s not a debt and he does not need to thank you. You tell him this. You tell him

_it’s not a debt._

 

But you realise quite suddenly that you are horrifically wrong. And you won’t admit it, even as the bullet holes bleed all over his back and his shirt, his hair smelling of salt and smoke as it presses against your face. His arms are around you, and he holds you close,  _Kikoku_  there—and  _you_. You can barely stand, barely breathe, and it is the regret, the consequence, the way Doflamingo’s laughter rings in your bleeding ears.

At one point, he’s running, sprinting as fast as he can through the cobblestone streets, his arms so warm and sure around you, and he says it’s going to be okay.

_It’s going to be okay_.

And it’s not a debt, it’s just that he was dying (and you’re not a good person, but even you can’t let him die—not  _Mugiwara_ ; not from neglect, not like  _that_ ). Just like he can’t leave you to rot in the streets, leave your sword to rust in the gutter; just like he can’t leave you chained to a chair of stone and hearts, kairoseki cuffs burning into your skin.

However. You see that he  _is_  a good man. And you are not. And it’s  _not_  a debt, but the scales are tipping out of your favour (ah, and you are not a gambler, but even you realise now that you have  _nothing_  to offer a man of light like him).

 

You will die.

(It’s too late, this is just the end; the end that should have come years before).

(We  _are_  sorry).

 

No one will miss you, anyway. That’s what you tell yourself. Does it make you feel better? Does it complete who you wish you were?

See, you should die.

But you don’t.

(Luffy’s foot is inches away from your face, catching Doflamingo’s with ease—and you cannot reciprocate this).

(You can’t even  _breathe_ ).

 

You’ll wake days later, and Luffy is there. He says what you already know (“You’re awake, Torao!” “I am.”)

There is not enough of the world to give him; not enough in your limited vocabulary that can say what needs to be said; but then he continues, smile like the sun: “Ahh, I’m so glad you’re alive!”

You’ll kiss him then, you will. You’ll kiss him, like this pathetic display of affection can say what you cannot, what you can’t even imagine. But it’s when he kisses you back, smile spreading beneath your lips (tastes like metal, like summer, like  _warmth_ ) you realise. In that tiny wooden shack, afternoon sun spilling through the windows, you know the truth, you can’t deny it: it’s not a debt. It’s nothing like that at _all_.

You are alive, Law.

That’s all he needs.

(We are so sorry you had to learn this the hard way).

 

_Do not question someone’s love._

 

* * *

 

 

**nostalgia curling**

 

**characters:** law/luffy

**tags:** modern au, total fluff, nostalgic feels, something to curb the angst

**rating: gen**

 

* * *

 

 

There is a postcard Luffy never sent, stuck to their fridge door with a cactus-shaped magnet. One of those real touristy ones (you know it), where the sunlight hits Sabaody city  _just_  right to make it incredible, like homeless don’t stretch along its streets, just looking for something to eat (“The city of dreams!” Yeah, right). It hasn’t moved for years. It hasn’t moved for so long, that Law is sure it would stay regardless of the cactus magnet. In fact, he is  _positive_  that underneath that postcard, the fridge is a different colour. Maybe white instead of the weird cream tinge it dons now, indicative of their life in this house, years spent without any change.

Today, he gets rid of it. You would too. The cactus magnet is  _cute_ , dammit, and at the moment it’s barely visible, hidden in dark mess of colours on a peeling piece of cardboard, one whose edges are curling like burnt paper. He takes it off, almost afraid the tattered thing with fall to pieces at his touch. Turns it over for a quick glance—blank, as suspected—opens the bin and then—

Stops.

He rubs his thumb along the paper. Once. Twice. Five times. Frowns. Caesar, their cat, jumps up on the bench at his side, nudging his hand with the crown of his head, demanding food with an indignant yowl. Law bats his nose with the postcard and then immediately regrets it, guilt clawing at his stomach as he holds it up to the fluorescent kitchen light, checking for any damage.

And just as he suspected, there is a name etched into the old, worn cardboard, faded from years of neglect. He thinks about the way the sun hits their fridge in the mornings, too bright and fierce; the shitty LED light that bathes him now, burning his retinas; the steam that comes from their stove, filling up the tiny un-ventilated kitchen.

The messily scrawled  _Ace_  is barely visible but still there. Written in cheap biro, it’s lasted the ages of their abuse. A wonder.

Down the hall, Law hears the front door slamming—then the tell-tale  _stamp, stamp, stamp_  of impatient feet. He whirls on his heel, ignoring another annoyed meow from that idiot cat, and clips the cactus back into place, where it holds the postcard, the memories, the space together, unchanged,  _familiar_.

Luffy’s head pokes around the corner, grinning manically. “Torao! You need to feed Caesar! Let’s go!”

Law says nothing—just reaches out, grabbing Luffy’s arm and pulling him forward into his chest with a small  _oof_. He holds him there, close, arms wrapped tightly around Luffy’s wiry body; breathes him in, the smell of salt and shampoo, something stabbing his chest, something so known, something that just—that  _just_ —

“Torao,” comes the impatient voice, muffled by Law’s clothes. “Sanji’s cooking a banquet at his house! Let’s go!”

Law smirks, eyes flicking to the fridge—the cactus lost in the gaudy photo, the peeling edges, the curling memories. Filling the space—creating the space. Like a beautiful secret. And he says, “Alright,” taking Luffy’s hand, kissing his fingers, letting him know he is  _there_.

It is the simplicity of their life unchanged. And Law would not have it any other way.

 

( _unfortunately 10 days of lawlu comes at the busiest time for me [and the most unimaginative]. so here is a thing, a thank you to all those who are creating such masterful works of art and writing <3)_


	9. Dictionary of Cat Language - (lawlu; modern au)

**The Dictionary of Cat Language**

 

 **characters:** law/luffy, monet

 **tags:** modern au, cuties being themselves, based off the prompt "character a befriends a cat that hates character b", set in the same universe as [The Bookshop is Called Robinson's](http://mrosenkov.tumblr.com/post/172438108059/the-bookshop-is-called-robinsons-law-works-in)

**rating: Gen**

 

* * *

 

 

He doesn’t get it. Law even bought  _fish_  this time (moment of weakness born of stubbornness and curiosity— _stupid_ ) and still, he gets bit (it hurts, too, thanks for asking).

Law’s not an irrational man but it is at this point that he starts to seriously wonder if Luffy is a witch.

“She just hates you,” Monet says on Wednesday, leaning over the register with that damnable smirk. One hand cups her chin, the other periodically flicking through an encyclopedia of bird species. She pauses on a two-page spread about seabirds. “She knows you’re no fun. Oi, albatross wings can be up to 2 metres each. How crazy is that?”

He doesn’t turn from the window. The rain’s coming down in sheets now, empty cobblestone streets turning into lakes, swirling down the drains. One lone man runs from the building opposite to his car, umbrella bobbing with urgency, puddles splashing up his suit. Law can hear him cursing through the marred glass.

“I can be fun,” he says, five minutes later. “And it’s 1.5 metres.”

Monet is suspiciously quiet behind him. Then: “Do you… hear yourself when you speak?”

“She’s  _your_ cat, Monet- _ya_ ,” he snaps, turning from the window. She still has that smirk about her. “ _Do_  something.”

“It’s not like I can talk to cats, Law.” She rolls her eyes, returning to her text, fingers tracing the outlines of gulls on the pages. “Besides: she doesn’t let me pat her, either.”

Law goes back to watching droplets of rain track down the windowpane, blurring the edges of Robinson’s sign, and sighs.

 

*

 

The next day, he opens the shop to Luffy kneeling out the front, patting the Spawn of Satan itself—the cat actually _headbutting_  him and  _purring_  as Luffy tells it about his morning.

“—so, because Sanji was mad, Usopp made breakfast this morning, which was okay, but there could have been more meat—” Strawhat pauses, looking up at the sound of the bookshop door swinging open. “Torao!”

Law glares down at the animal. It blinks back at him.  _Traitor_.

“Have you met this cat? Sugar, this is Torao. Torao, Sugar.” His voice drops to a whisper. “ _She’s not very sweet_.”

Law grits his teeth; does his best to ignore the whole situation. “Coffee, Strawhat? Monet’s watching the shop.”

“Okay!” Luffy jumps up. “Hey, let’s take Sugar!”

“ _No._ ”

 

*

 

Five days later he slams a book on the register desk in front of Monet, tapping his index impatiently on the cover.

She looks up from her phone, eyes instantly lighting up with mischievous glee. “ _The Dictionary of Cat Language_? Oh,  _Law._ ”

“Tell anyone about this and I will take out your heart.”

“Uh-huh.” She rings up the till with a grin, humming to herself like she’s having the best day of her life, and adds, “You medical students are so crass.”

As she hands the book over, he tells her, very calmly, that the human heart can survive up to fifteen minutes after clinical death and  _isn’t that interesting_.

 

*

 

(The next morning, he pats Sugar, and upon being scratched this time, he wonders how long cat hearts can survive after death, and just how small and crushable they are and  _why won’t this cut stop bleeding, you bastard feline_ —)

 

*

 

“Is that a scratch on your face?”

“Shut up. What do you want? Sixth edition or fifth?”

Luffy pokes his nose. “Does it hurt?”

“ _Don’t_.”

“Sixth.”

“Are you  _absolutely_ sure? Need I remind you, last time you were wrong, and you dragged me here at  _3am_  to get the other one?”

Luffy sniggers. “You tried to pat Sugar, didn’t you, Torao?”

Law sighs, a sound that hisses out between his teeth with frustration. He takes both texts from the shelf, and rounds on Strawhat with a glare. “Why does she let you pat her?”

He shrugs. “I didn’t think you liked cats, Traffy!”

“I don’t. I don’t like animals. They smell.”

“Sugar’s special, huh? She headbutts my feet down the street.”

Law walks back to the register, flicking the computer on and scanning Luffy’s books through. He says, “Monet insists on keeping her here.”

“Is that the green girl? Sanji wants her number.” Luffy hums, flicking through the postcards absently on the desk with a frown. “You never have any new ones.”

“No one buys them except for you.”

He shoves the books in a canvas bag, sliding it across the table to Luffy as the bell above the door chimes. Monet enters, grinning slyly as she pushes her sunglasses into her hair.

“You’re not working today,” Law says flatly.

“Why hello to you too, Law.” She waves to Luffy. “Luffy. Sugar’s outside.”

“Yosh!” Luffy takes his bookbag, cradling it to his chest with an excited smile. “Come on, Torao, let’s go!”

“No.”

“ _Torao_.”

Monet slips behind the cooking book aisle, sniggering softly into her hand. Law shoots her a lovely, scathing glare before she disappears from view.

“No. I hate that cat.”

He even spent five minutes in the rain yesterday letting it sniff his hand like that stupid book said, as it hid in the bin (because it’s a disgusting, dumb, dumpster cat) and it still nipped him and he’s pretty sure he’s got a cold and— _damn_ that mangy, ginger, demon cat!

So, Law adds, for empathises, “ _A lot._ ”

Luffy’s done listening. “Torao!” and then he’s out the door, bell chiming mockingly in the quiet.

After a minute:

“Ha,  _Law_ —”

“I will kill you,” he growls at Monet, her head poking out from behind a shelf with glittering eyes. He spins on his heel, hesitates only for a small moment, and then follows Luffy outside.

The cat’s headbutting his hand and meowing happily. Sun peeks from behind the stormy clouds, casting long shadows across the street and bathing Luffy in its light.

It is… a sight. Something that makes it mysteriously difficult to breathe.

“ _Shishishi_! You should pat her, Traffy!”

“You’re a witch, Strawhat.”

Law doesn’t move.

“Are you scared?”

Law  _bristles_  at the implication. “ _Absolutely not_.”

He still doesn’t move.

Luffy says, “Cats just like me.” Shrugs. “Maybe I speak cat.”

“Cat language isn’t a thing.”

 _Ha_. Law idles over, kneeling beside Luffy and taking a deep breath. Sugar glares up at him, a look on her dumb, furry face akin to something like  _fuck you_  and  _fuck off_.

“Pat her,” Luffy says simply. “Like this.” He scratches under her chin.

“Uh.”

Law lifts his hand, pausing for a moment. Long enough for Luffy to take his fingers, repeating, “Like this.” He pushes his hand to Sugar’s forehead, where Strawhat scratches near her ears with Law’s fingers entwined in his. They feel warm and soft, and Sugar’s fur is warm and soft, and Law feels  _warm_  and—

He wrenches his hand out of Luffy’s abruptly. “Ahhh—”

“See, that was good, hey, Traf? She’s soft, huh?” Luffy jumps up, picking up his discarded bookbag and cackling. “Let’s get some coffee!”

He finds his voice. Somehow. Eventually. “I have to watch the shop.”

Law stands, suddenly nervous (weird), watching as Sugar bolts from view, disappearing down the nearest storm drain like a water rat. For some reason, he can’t look at Luffy, or talk to him, or anything, bathed in the sliver of warm sunlight that streaks down the dirty street.

“I can do that,” a soft voice hums, full of mocking  _understanding_. Law glares at Monet, leaning against the window of the shop underneath the giant ‘Robinson’s’ sign. “If you bring me back a skinny cap.”

“Okay!” Luffy says at the same time Law bites, “ _No_.”

But then, something presses into his palm—grips his hand awfully tight and tugs him down the street. Luffy laughs by his side, the sound echoing through the empty marketplace, leading him into the sun.

“Oh, Torao, we should bring Sugar!”

As they round the corner, Law turns to see Sugar, drenched in dappled afternoon sunlight, watching him with an almost knowing stare.

He glares back. “No.”

_Bloody cat._

(P.S: Luffy needed the  _seventh_  edition of that book, and Law had to open the shop at midnight to find it for him, then proceeded to stay up all night helping him with his assignment—and let’s just say that that  _wasn’t_  Luffy’s intention, but early morning, grumpy Torao is kinda of funny and surprisingly cuddly [and he makes good coffee and smells really nice]).


End file.
